The Rack
by bjxmas
Summary: 4.10 Heaven and Hell tag. He couldn't believe this was him. Dean Winchester wouldn't do this… couldn't do this, but there he was, knife in hand. Alastair threatens and Castiel offers redemption as Dean relives his time in Hell. Angst and Guilt. 4 Chapters
1. The Journey Starts at the Beginning

4.10 Heaven and Hell tag

The Rack

"_Nobody can go back and start a new beginning, but anyone can start today and make a new ending." _- Maria Robinson

Chapter One – The Journey Starts at the Beginning

It was almost as if they placed a clock on the rack, turned back the hands, and again set the pendulum in motion. Time moves differently in Hell, but _this?_ It was as if time itself had reversed, like it was his first soul. He remembered every single moment, the flutter of apprehension in his gut, the nervous twitch in the muscle right beneath his left eye, the determined clench of his jaw as he gasped in a free breath of air… how he couldn't believe this was _him_. Dean Winchester wouldn't do this… _couldn't_ do this, but there he was, knife in hand.

Sam would be so disappointed, so disgusted. He _knew_ that, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to care. He tried not to think about it, but in the end it was all he _could_ think about. His own pain miraculously vanquished; his mangled body magically pieced back together with the blood staining his trembling flesh gone… back beneath his skin as it should be, pumping through his veins as if he were still alive.

He had never felt more cold and dead inside… _worthless_. He caught a glimpse of himself in the slick, cool metal of the blade when he tightened his grip and he didn't recognize this new him, the face impersonal, jaw rigid, eyes fixed, ice cold determination rising up in the sweltering heat of this place made only for torture, his body frigid with no trace of concern. He quickly turned away from the image, raising the knife, poised to make the first cut.

He stared into the eyes of the man laid out before him, a strong man back in the real world, cocky and sure, defiant. That won't last long, at least he hoped not. It was easier to admit your limits early on, to accept defeat and let go of any pretense. No one got out of Hell alive, unscathed. No one got out _period._

This man had already lost the battle… _he was here_. The demons always won… _always, _it was written in the rule book. Written by the blood of those who came before.

This fool didn't realize it, but it was only a matter of time until he accepted the truth like all the others.

Only a matter of time…

Thirty years… _thirty years.._, more than a lifetime, at least more than his.

Dean's hand started to shake as the blade neared its target, his legs trembling and threatening to buckle, locked in place by sheer will. He sucked in a ragged breath, his throat constricting from the tension; lips shivering from the cold, empty tomb he'd fallen into, his bottom lip pulled in and clenched between his teeth to still the tremors until blood filtered into his mouth reminding him of why he was here, what was expected.

Before he arrived in this hellhole he thought he'd endured pain back on earth, in his life and through his losses. What had he possibly known about true agony back then, a lifetime ago? He'd never experienced _Hell…_ that is until _now_. He had to ask himself why he suffered through the torture for thirty years. He honestly couldn't remember anymore, not one single reason that made a lick of sense. Why hadn't he said, "Yes," that first day? He could have saved himself all the blood and tears, all the rips of his flesh and the ravages to his soul. He could have made it easier… _so much easier_.

The end result would still be the same. No difference… _except…_

His eyes threatened to tear up and he quickly bit into his lip harder, more blood filling his mouth and focusing his mind. Blood had a way of doing that, bringing clarity as the red spread out, saturating his thoughts with the painful truth. His green eyes steadied, all moisture removed by the heat of the flames and his own stoic determination, the realization strong that this was all there was to hope for.., to bring the pain instead of enduring it.

It was the fool's quest to think any differently.

Endlessly reliving his mistakes, his misplaced heroics offered no answers, only serving to dredge up the pain; pain he barely survived the first time. His mind snapped back to the task at hand as he repeated his question to the man, "Why are you here?"

The man laid out on the rack hid his fear well. He tried to offer his torturer a smile, tense and uncertain, his lips turning up in a tremulous sneer as he started to waver before he fixed his grit and refused to yield, falling into that trap that only a few are brave or foolish enough to depend upon; that pathetic, wayward attempt to appear strong, to hold on to who they once were. "Why are we all here? We're sinners," he snarled.

Dean stepped closer to the rack, the glint in his eye flickering back in all its glory while a smirk found its way to his lips, a bold façade hiding what lie buried deep beneath the surface as his stomach lurched and twisted sideways and his mind took him back to the beginning. He forced himself to take another step, to face the wooden plank and the heavy metal chains. He was upright, standing _beside_ the rack, not on it. He was in control here, or at least in as much control as you could possibly find here in Hell. No longer a victim howling through the empty caverns as the demons sliced and carved their way through his trembling flesh.

He tentatively reached out, placing his hand on the rough wood of the rack, feeling the wide grain of the wood and the splinters that had pricked his body with that familiar sensation every time he'd moved when _he'd_ been the one stretched out as a sacrifice. He could smell the blood that saturated the wood, feel the fear that lingered, brushing against his senses and threatening to undo him. "_What_ were your sins?" he demanded; his voice cold as his hollow heart, void of any hint of fear. Fear was a target on your back, calling the hellhounds to their feast. Once he stepped off the rack he bottled up all his fear and cast it off into the fires to be consumed. He closed off that part of his life and focused on _this…_ _now…_ the coming torture.., torture to be inflicted by his own hand.

With a casual lilt in his voice the man answered the question, "A little of this… a little of that," unaware of how stupid it was to resist, how that cocky façade would soon melt from the heat of the flames and the burn of the knife. How he'd soon be stripped of all his courage and left whimpering like a wounded animal, trapped quite literally in his own private hell, inconsolable and lost in the pain the pit promised.

Hell was never one to fall short of expectations.

Dean bristled at the audacity of this man. He found it quite different being on the receiving end; he was most used to dishing out the witty retorts, not listening to the inane comments and acting like he cared. He was long past caring and sharing, long past _caring_ period. Caring only made you weak, and you can't show weakness… not here. "Quit being a smartass. Do you _know_ where you are?" he shouted, brutal and fierce, his tone conveying his irritation and harsh enough to garner respect or fear, most often viewed the same here in Hell. The dumb ass didn't even realize how precarious his situation was, how annoying your torturer wasn't exactly your best move. Something Dean had himself learned the hard way.

Oblivious to the danger, the fool continued the charade. "You mean, _Hell?_ Yeah, I know."

"And?"

"And _what?_ You want me to beg? Cry? Not happening, pal."

A sick smirk emerged on Dean's face, it was all so familiar, so déjà vu. This would be freaking hilarious if it wasn't so damn tragic, if he was capable of feeling anything again. His left brow arched as he confidently responded in a cool and steady voice, "You're wrong about that, tough guy."

It figured they'd give him someone made from the same mettle, a man who _thought_ he was unbreakable. He'd soon learn, just like Dean had. That was his sole purpose now, to make sure of it. He had never before failed in a job once he took it on. This would be no different.

_Everyone_ breaks… you just have to know where to apply the pressure. It only took the older Winchester thirty years to admit to it, but then, he never was known as the smart one. That would be his kid brother.

He didn't want to think about Sammy. How Sam would fare in this place. _Nothing_ could make him think about that… but with nothing else of substance surrounding him; it was _all _he thought of. And he couldn't bear to picture Sammy laid out on the rack, but the image had been placed there. Cast into his mind like a stone-cold prophecy, a deadly promise if he refused to listen to reason.

_Pressure…_ there is always a means.

He blinked back his tears, denying them even as they wetted his cheeks. You _don't_ show emotion down here, not if you want to survive until the next day with some semblance of a body. He turned back to the man awaiting him, not much else the man could do, chained to the rack as he was. The waiting never lasted, too much blood demanding to be released, screams longing to be heard.

The demons had their time tables, their routines. The proper order the torture would take was scheduled, day after day, week after week, until time stretched on with no end in sight, years and decades soon passing.

In spite of everything, the man held on to his bravado. "Ah, yeah? How am I wrong?"

Dean sighed, the words he now spoke the same words he heard on his first day, a freaking record stuck on skip and played out over and over throughout his time on the rack, a new mantra to replace the old: the one true purpose he'd always held tight to, to protect his kid brother… to protect _Sammy._ He _had _protected his brother, brazenly stolen him back from death itself and _this_ was the price he'd been forced to pay… he'd _willingly_ paid. He shook out his shoulders and tried to bury the memories as they rumbled in his gut. He didn't want to think about the past and how he came to be here, it didn't change a damn thing. His other life no longer existed, burnt black and bled out of him. He would never regret his actions then… only his actions _now_.

He didn't have a choice. He told himself that lie a million times and still he couldn't believe it… but he also couldn't bring himself to care, all concern ripped from him like his screams had been.

Empty and cold, he focused on the man before him, his words a deadly promise. "You _will_ beg… and you'll cry and piss your pants… I can promise you that." He leaned in with the expected menace, his hand tightening on the hilt of the knife as it inched closer to the man's chest, finally coming to rest laid flat against his trembling skin. Every breath the man took making the metal rise and fall along with his pale chest shivering within the terror. "You'll do things you never imagined you'd be driven to do."

"Why? Because of _you?" _

"Me? No… I'm just the hammer. You will do these things because this is Hell." Dean leaned in, his words a whisper against the man's ear, "Hell demands it."

The voice hitched… _finally._ Realization slipped within his consciousness, hijacking his fierce determination and turning him into a born-again believer. "What are you going to do?" he rasped out, brown eyes wild like a frantic rabbit caught in the headlights of a pack of motorcycles as they circled, moments from being run into the ground as the roar of the engines and the spin of the wheels surged forward.

The man's voice on the verge of cracking, imperceptible unless you knew what to listen for. Dean had experience with men of this ilk, men who seemed remarkably similar to him. It was like holding up a cracked mirror, and witnessing his own initiation into hell. His gut clenched even tighter and he felt like he was going to throw up, spasms randomly rolling through in waves that reached up into his throat and lodged there. There was no food to expel, no meals since before he first came here, only his terrors and despair left within, threatening to erupt to the surface.

He was still in a tenuous situation, perched between damnation and survival, leaning heavily toward his promised eternal damnation if he faltered. Assured of it if he succeeded. Alastair had been intently watching him since he got off the rack, gauging if he could follow his orders, commit to his duty, or whether he was faking and deserved to be deposited right back onto the rack.

He'd do what he had to do… He wasn't going back on the rack… not _ever_ again. He couldn't… he just _couldn't._

He found his voice, ragged and rough, raw and still hoarse from his own desperate screams; his steel determination flashed within his eyes fueling what little courage he'd managed to grasp hold of. He repeated the cruel words, just as he'd heard them, the same threat ever present unless you lived up to their expectations, their sick, twisted demands. "_What_ am I going to do? Things you can't even imagine…" He then quietly assumed the role of educator, cluing the man in to what was coming, if he was smart enough to listen. "Do you have any idea how much blood fills a man?"

The man set his jaw, _just like he had…_ locked his eyes upon him, _the same damn defiance,_ and his smart mouth let loose with a stupid, insane comment that was totally inappropriate, _like so many that spilled from his own mouth, _"Look, _buddy…_ I'm not gonna talk all day. If you're gonna do somethin', just _do it_. Don't talk me to death."

He almost smiled at the memory. How good it had felt to show no fear, even if his gut was twisted beyond any parameters he'd ever known of terror, so far beyond the horror he couldn't even imagine what was coming. He _was_ Dean Winchester, after all, and if there was one thing he knew, it was how to hide your true feelings, how to put on the mask and play the part. This man was in for a rough time of it, _just like him…_

Alastair and his kind took special interest in the ones who defied them, and the more resolute you appeared, the greater their interest. It was more fun to see fierce men finally tremble and break. Most souls failed to offer much of a challenge, quickly dissolving into a blathering mass of terror when faced with the stark reality of Hell, so the demons took special delight in the few who stood their ground and offered resistance.

Face it, down here, in the depths of Hell, it was all about the challenge, about exerting their power and forcefully taking what was denied, the conquerors enjoying the spoils of war.

"You're already dead… so I wouldn't rush things," Dean reminded the man. "Death offers no release… not here. You'll scream, and you'll beg." As torturer he stated the facts in a clear and detached manner, just like they'd been presented to him. "There will be tears and pleas… promises and lies. But know this, there is no salvation… not here… not until…" His voice trailed off, the memories rising up again, a lump forming in his throat as he tried to push them back down… deep within his gut, twisted and pained.

The man's eyes widened, suddenly feeling that first wave of fear, that first inkling of the horrors to come. "What?" he croaked out.

Dean resolutely stared at the man, determined to shake off his own apprehension. His sensitive, pained eyes struggling to regain their fixed, vacant, emotionless emptiness, finally managing to slam the shutters down and retreat within, back to the safety of denial; left only with the base need to survive, to stave off his own torture and the pain he could no longer face. "Trust me, you don't want to know. It's better that way. You… you hold on to your defiance… as long as you can, but know this… it won't last, not here. Sooner or later you'll break. They all do."

It wasn't an idle threat, it was a fact of life, or death here in Hell. Everyone breaks… _sooner or later._

TBC

_Thanks for reading, reviews would be lovely if you would care to click the button. This was originally going to be a three chapter story, but I think it will stretch into four chapters. I am currently working on the last chapters. Take care, B.J._


	2. Beyond the Past There is a Future

"_Forgiveness does not change the past, but it does enlarge the future." _- Paul Boese

Chapter Two – Beyond the Past There is a Future

Alastair seemed pleased, expectantly observing as Dean towered over the prisoner, the blade poised to begin, the hunter's words firm and vile. He knew this one showed promise. Sensed it from the first time he saw him, the iron will that steadied his piercing green eyes as the torture began, the steel determination evident as his toned muscles accepted the first slide of the blade, the quirk of his full lips as he mouthed off, any fear buried so deep it would take years of torture to pull it back to the surface. He knew all the attributes that made the hunter such a formidable foe would make him a master torturer when the time came.

It _was_ the double edge of the sword, the inevitable downward slide once the first strike lands and the blade shifts, mutating through years of pain until the tortured becomes the torturer. It was, after all, how it worked down under.

_This_ had been well worth the wait… the thirty years it took to batter down the hunter's defenses, to wipe clean the slate of good he'd managed back on earth, to make him forget who he was and bring him to who he was meant to be.

He stepped behind his protégé, his hands reaching out to grasp the broad shoulders, squeezing just tight enough for his presence to be felt, an intimidating presence silently directing the action. Dean shuddered beneath his touch, trembling from the sense memory of all the previous touches that weren't so kind. Alastair chuckled softly as his own memories revisited him, how delicious Dean had looked stretched out on the rack, brave and bold and beautiful as the blood stained his pale skin, his luminous green eyes flickering with defiance long after all others would have folded in defeat, a _worthy_ opponent.

The hunter's descent to the ranks of torturer all the sweeter because of the time it took to bring about the transformation. Alastair enjoyed a challenge, reveled in the moment when the scales tipped, when the cost to surrender became less than the cost of holding on.

"Dean, what's wrong?" His voice sounded tender, almost protective, as if he truly cared. Still, the threat hung unspoken, ever present within the words, the promise of what was to come if the hunter faltered.

Dean glanced back, no expression in those amazing eyes, no tears, no fears.

Alastair missed the look of terror, lamented the passing of that most precious moment, the point at which the hunter broke. It had been so much fun bringing him to that instant, it was a pity to let go of the journey. But it _was_ the end that mattered, that moment when he fractured apart, weeping and spasming, gasping out in a desperate, hoarse voice, barely able to form the words, "Yes… yes, I'll do it. Please, just stop. Please, no more." His boy was exquisite in that moment, pure devastation waiting for Alastair to piece him back together.

This scene before him was the culmination of thirty years of torture, the sweet moment of victory. Dean's chance to rise up from the ashes of his humanity and embark on a new path, a grand journey that would lead him to more power than he could ever imagine, the chance to become one with evil.

"Dean.., begin."

The hunter shifted, his hand clenched so tightly around the hilt of the blade his knuckles turned white. White like before, the pale tone his face took when all color drained from it as his blood pooled on the floor, his eyes rolling back in his head as unconsciousness beckoned. It was in that moment that Alastair would snap his fingers and magically pull all the bloody pieces back together so they could begin anew.

Dean had been a fascinating subject, hanging on far longer than any who came before; suffering through an onslaught of pain that would most likely never be surpassed, enough agony to goad him on if ever he hesitated in his new role, insuring he turned out perfect. The memories of where he'd been and what he'd suffered would always haunt him, along with the guilt of what he was about to do. But he was a hunter skilled in unpleasant and unsavory tasks, trained to do his job and do it well. This would be no different.

A thousand souls awaited their turn at his mercy, to feel his wrath as none before.

Alastair had never felt such pride.

"Dean?"

"Yes, Alastair?"

The demon's voice was prodding, but almost gentle, far from the tone he'd used before within the torture, now cajoling, moving slowly toward insistent. "Begin."

Dean inched closer and the man laid out before him on the rack tensed, certain the first strike was upon him. Suddenly the man started to pray, repeating the invocation over and over as a litany. Eyes closed as his mouth mumbled the words, "Holy Father, bless me for I have sinned. Deliver me from evil and protect me. I give up my own will to follow yours. Holy Father, bless me for I have sinned. Deliver me from evil…"

Alastair began to laugh. This was the final joke, a hapless, hopeless appeal to a god who didn't exist south of the border. God didn't exist _here_, this was Lucifer's realm. He turned to observe Dean's reaction and gasped. A single tear threatened to fall, moisture wrapping around those sensitive eyes no longer shielded by the mask of indifference.

"Dean…" he warned, his tone barreling back toward the harshness and foreboding of before, his sinister eyes taking on that dark cast, an ominous threat grabbing hold. Still, the hunter didn't move, didn't begin, didn't raise up the knife gripped even tighter in his pale hand.

Alastair knew the history of young Winchester. Knew he didn't believe in _God,_ had seen too much evil and mayhem to _ever_ believe. It was the one certainty besides his love and devotion for his family, the one truth the hunter had uncovered in a world built on lies.

Weaker humans hoped to believe, wanted or even needed to, but not Dean Winchester… Dean _knew_. Had known since he was four years old, since that night when tragedy claimed his youth and set him on this course. He knew there was no such thing as God. This was one human who knew with absolute conviction, beyond doubt or reproach.

Not once amid all the torture did he ever cry out to God.

Not once did he ask for deliverance.

"No," escaped the hunter's lips, the single word soft but crystal clear. His eyes shifting slightly, barely perceptible as the color deepened and a tenderness overcame them, shimmering within a gentle gaze softened by his welling emotions.

One word halted the proceedings, one word turned Hell slightly to the right.

One word set Dean Winchester on another path.

Alastair leaned in, his hot breath rancid as he panted into the hunter's ear, goose bumps rising up along his neck in response, a reminder that he was poised on the edge of destruction. "Dean… do not disobey."

This made no sense. God had never mattered to the hunter before. He was far from a believer having seen too much in his young life; suffered too many disappointments… witnessed too many horrors amid the chaos to _ever_ believe in a merciful and just God.

The strong shoulders squared off as his back straightened, his head rising up proud and true. Dean turned and smiled, that damnable cocky grin filling his face with renewed fight as he stared directly into Alastair's eyes, the contempt again strong, a mirror expression of that very first day so many years ago. "Screw you." A fixed angry stare consumed those steely eyes before they lit on fire, twinkling in the afterglow of determination, bold in their defiance. "I'm done with this… with _you_," he sneered.

Shaking his head in amazement, Alastair coldly smiled as he resigned himself to his loss. His eyes narrowed and fixed upon the hunter as he was whipped around; the knife mysteriously pulled from his grasp and sent sailing through the air to clatter to the ground yards away. Dean was forcibly pushed against the nearest wall, plastered against it, gasping for air. Fierce eyes glared at the demon, ready for the pain, knowing it was coming. Wanting it… _asking_ for it.

"Dean… _Dean… _I'm disappointed in you. I thought you'd accepted the inevitable…" Alastair leaned in, his breath ghosting along the hunter's neck, bristling the hairs already standing on end, his voice slipping into a taunt, "Guess I was wrong. _Pity_… More fun for me."

Stepping back, Alastair smiled as his hand reached out and the hunter screamed.

---

Time moves differently in Hell. All the time in the world exists for the pain, and the demons use it, bend it to serve their desires. Dean found himself back on the rack, the man he was to torture right beside him… in pieces. Dean was stretched out, taut and ready, but the blade never found him. Instead he was left to watch the disembowelment of that prayer-spouting, cocky sonuvabitch who'd tried so desperately to hold on to his swagger before the demons had their way with him.

He didn't last long.

As they scraped him from the rack the final time and carried the pieces off, Dean silently awaited his turn. He closed his eyes to prepare, not that anything could prepare him for what was to come. He knew that. He'd already relived thirty years of torture while he waited, every cut and the scream that accompanied it, all the rips of his flesh and the teardrops that wetted his cheeks until no tears remained.

"Dean, so tell me… what _is_ the problem? A little blood, some well-deserved screams. What's so hard about that? Better him than you, right?" Alastair was casually strolling around the rack, sighing softly as if he were addressing a truant in the principal's office, not preparing to torture a man. "And as you can see… and _hear, _your heroics changed nothing. He still got ripped apart… the only difference is you, Dean. _You_ could have been spared what's to come. Instead here you are, back at the beginning. Tell me, will your screams vindicate you somehow? Absolve you of all your sins?" Alastair reached out and threaded his hand through the hunter's short hair, cold fingers gliding along his cheek, continuing down to his throat and wrapping around his windpipe, squeezing until his eyes bulged, desperate for air. Alastair knew exactly how much pressure to exert without causing the hunter to black out, taking him to the edge and letting him teeter there before releasing him with a sinister laugh. "I'm just curious… just want to know what is going on in that freakish head of yours. You didn't save him… So _why?_ Why bother? Why not save yourself? It would have been so simple… so _easy._ His blood alone, instead of both your bloods mixing on the floor."

Dean opened his eyes and smiled, white teeth not yet covered in blood, dimples framing the confident grin. A flush was on his face, his pale skin alive with passion. "Maybe I am saving myself."

"What?" Alastair exclaimed. "You can't be serious… Dean, really? You don't believe in that crap now, do you?"

The hunter fixed his strong jaw, his entire face held tight as a shield against the panic that surely was gnawing its way through his gut, the fear locked down deep, just like in the beginning. Alastair could smell it, knew it still thrived, even as Dean made a noble effort to conceal it. A lesser demon and he would have succeeded.

Through lips drawn tight, Dean offered the only answer he'd ever known, "It was the right thing to do."

"Right?" Alastair outright laughed, his lips curved up in a nasty scowl. "There is no _right_ here. Only survival… and _this_…" He caressed the metal chain holding Dean stretched and ready, his other hand laid flat against the raised grain of the wooden rack beneath him. His eyes locked upon the trapped hunter. "This isn't the way to go, Dean. Trust me… if you thought it was bad before, that was nothing."

"Nothing?" Dean spat back. "Coulda fooled me."

"I thought you were smarter than this. I thought, just _maybe_ you'd learned something here."

"What? From you?" Dean shifted, the slivers from the wooden planks beneath him burrowing into his shoulder, scraping his back and reminding him of where he was, what was coming. He shivered involuntarily before locking down his fear, bolting the door and retreating back into the dark passageways, far from the evil approaching, back to the safety of his steel resolve. He closed his eyes for a second, a mere second of solitude to stem the emotions, to find the hatred and courage he'd need to get him through this one more time.

"Dean… it's not going to work, you know. You broke once… you will again."

His eyes slowly opened and he took a deep breath to still the hammering of his heart. "Yeah?" he sneered, his dimples deep as he fixed his most confident smirk, his eyes staring deep into Alastair's. "_Maybe_… but not today."

---

He didn't know how long it took, it seemed forever, but then every session felt like an eternity. The blades sliced and hacked at his aching flesh, his blood spilling forth, flooding over the wood of the rack and dripping to the floor beneath while his voice grew hoarse from the unbridled screams ripped out of him as his limbs thrashed against his constraints and his body throbbed from the intense agony pounding through him. Blood was everywhere… except in him. Stuck in a surreal limbo, he waited for the magic to begin, to snap his body back together like a Lego toy, ready to again be disassembled a piece at a time in the next session as the cycle continued ad nauseum.

His tears freely flowed, knowing restraining them only took energy he didn't possess.

It took all his energy to refuse Alastair's offer at the end of every day.

He wanted to take it, almost immediately once the torture began again. He _wanted_ to… knowing there was no end, no relief, knowing the pain would continue forever.

Forever was a long time…

He wanted to take the deal, he did. It hurt so much to want it so badly.

But he couldn't… he just _couldn't…_

Every belief he held dear in his life held him back, _demanded_ he hold on for one more minute.

His gut ached from the memory of how it had felt to fall from grace, and he held tight to that, the shame of falling short and how he desperately didn't want to feel like that ever again. In the midst of his torture it would be so easy to close his eyes to the distant memory and climb back off the rack and find relief from _this_ pain. This pain was so immediate, so real… so _now._

He was teetering on the edge of decision; holding firm, resolute and true to his ideals, or surrendering to the inevitable and becoming what he most hated. His mind could almost convince himself to simply lean slightly to the side, tumble into the abyss and never look back. To lose himself completely in the process, to allow them to burn away his humanity and turn him into what they were. It would be so very easy… had been easy… _before._

He hated them… but he most hated himself for almost becoming the same damn thing. He set his mind to resisting, to not falling into that trap again if for no other reason then he knew how it would feel. How it would tear through his insides and make him wish he couldn't feel anything... Make him pray to a God that he knew didn't exist so all the pain and shame and guilt would stop squeezing his heart and burning through his eyes like acid.

His gut clenched and his chest tightened as he tried to still the roiling of his insides at the mere thought of one more session. His panic was rising, his courage on the verge of collapsing, the constant battle threatening to drag him back to submission.

In a crush of despair he broke, reaching out as never before.

Screaming to the heavens he cried out, "Oh, God… please. If you're there… _please_."

TBC

_Chapter Three is getting pretty long and involved so I am now considering revising my original concept and making this a four chapter fic. I want to make the ending satisfying and I don't want to rush it, so I will probably hold off posting again until after Christmas. _

_Merry Christmas, Season's Greeting and just happy thoughts to all. Thanks for reading, reviews would make a great Christmas present… What can I say? I'm cheap and easy… to buy for. Take care, B.J._


	3. Forgiveness is the Only Path to Freedom

"_To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner was you." _- Lewis B. Smedes

Chapter Three – Forgiveness is the Only Path to Freedom

"Dean… what were you dreaming about?"

The voice was low but it cut straight through him, startling him back to full consciousness. His eyes flew open and the first thing he noticed was the relative softness beneath him, followed by the sight of a crack spanning the expanse of ceiling above, a sure-fire way of identifying another low-rent motel. The room was quiet, deathly still, and cold. A shiver ran up his spine and settled in his shoulders, his neck compressing down in a vain attempt to dispel the chill. Only the faint sounds of the distant highway penetrated the calm; his labored breathing more noticeable within the peaceful lull as traffic thinned out.

He was stretched out fully-clothed on the top of the bed with only a vague memory of exhaustion finally defeating him. He shifted, turning his head toward the voice to find Castiel sitting on the edge of the bed; his eyes filled with softness and concern… an inquisitive look that chilled the hunter to the bone. He didn't want an angel sitting on his bed or shoulder or anywhere else the hell around him. He didn't need his concerned looks and probing questions.

This was the second time the angel had asked him that question, but this time he knew Cas _knew_. Anna had said the angels were talking about him… about what he'd _done. _His eyes briefly connected with the angel before flickering down and away, not willing to bare his soul, unable to offer himself up in another confessional. He'd already confessed to Sam, admitted what he'd done…

There was nothing left to talk about.

He'd done it… All he could do now was live with it, that knowledge and pain… that guilt.

His mind kept taking him back to George. He'd liked the grizzled old painter, even in a strange way admired him once he came to know him, and now he felt a kinship with his situation. He understood.., related to how he had felt, the regrets that haunted him, although George hadn't committed near the atrocities he had. In comparison George was relatively innocent with only two souls to atone for. Dean had lost count of the number of souls he'd ripped apart on the rack; the weight of their anguish a burden he'd never escape.

Regardless of what he had thought about the intelligence of George's crossroads deal, he respected that when the time came, George had made his bed and was willing to lie down in it, not asking for help or expecting it.

Not wanting it.

The man was a pragmatist, a realist.

Like George, Dean needed to answer for what he'd done, he knew that.

He just didn't know how.

Nothing could change the past.

There was no way to right the wrongs he'd inflicted, no means to clear the slate. The souls he'd ripped apart were still trapped in Hell, still tormented and tortured for all time. His actions couldn't be reversed and they certainly didn't deserve to be excused. And as much as he might wish for it, he knew he would never forget the look of terror in their eyes as he stood over them. He could never wipe their blood from his hands.

It was what it was, an odious stigma branding his very soul.

So how was he supposed to live with that? How could he face himself in the mirror each morning when their bloody images flashed before his eyes while their terror-filled screams echoed in his head? Beating him down and reminding him of what he'd become, what he was truly capable of.

The pain of those last ten years far surpassed the agony of the first thirty.

Why hadn't he seen that at the time? Why had he surrendered?

_Why?_

One question demanded to be answered each and every waking moment.

Couldn't he have held on for one more day? Just one?

Then maybe, just _maybe_ he could have gone another… and then another… and then maybe, just _maybe_ he wouldn't have to live with this monster eating away at his insides.

Looking at Castiel now, he had to ponder how different it would be if he had just hung on until Cas pulled him out. Couldn't he have managed that?

Shouldn't he have tried?

He'd only been out of Hell a few months, his recall of his actions fully intact for even less… and already he couldn't stand it. It was a constant pressure sitting on his chest, squeezing the breath from his lungs and suffocating him; like being trapped in his coffin as tons of earth gave way with no way out, forever dying a slow, agonizing death without ever being allowed to fully succumb to the grim reaper. Forever trapped in this purgatory.

Anna had reminded him he _did_ have people who cared, that he didn't have to go through this alone. Weary and so damn tired of the lies he'd released the charade, opened his heart and soul and told Sam the truth, what Hell was and worse.., what he'd done.

Sam never wavered. Shocked and saddened, he remained steadfast beside him, his heart bleeding for his brother, empathizing and trying to share his pain. His tender eyes brimming with heavy tears but never judging him; trying his best to understand how his own brother could be such a monster.

Sam's attempts to console him were noble but misplaced; he didn't deserve his understanding and as much as he wanted to help, Sam wasn't qualified to forgive.

In some small way.., for a brief moment, the weight had lifted as he allowed his brother to witness his grief and he'd been able to gasp in another unsteady breath before the world again closed down around him, burying him under the weight of his guilt. It was only a temporary reprieve… untangling the ugly truth and dragging it into the daylight. Releasing the secret gave him the freedom to acknowledge his pain, but the light of day couldn't erase the gloom of his nightmares or ease the darkness that laid claim to his very soul.

All the love in the world was incapable of vanquishing the evil he himself had allowed in. The horror of what he'd done, of who he'd become, was a constant now… never to again be denied. His soul was forever tainted by his actions, dishonorable and unconscionable.

Rolling to the side his boots dropped off the bed with a heavy thud and he staggered upright, leaning into the aisle between the two beds, his back hunched over as he tried to ignore the angel behind him. He could feel his eyes boring a hole through him, trolling the depths of his soul in search of answers. With overt disgust he reached for his bottle, always close at hand on the nightstand, and twisted off the cap for a long drag, the whiskey burning a path down his parched throat in a desperate quest for solace. Even his nightmares drained the moisture from his mouth like the fires of Hell had, every detail so rich and real, almost as if Alastair were invading his sleep and dragging him back to the pit for another go-round.

Each nightmare bringing another year of torment, a constant reminder lying heavy in his gut that he'd failed. Another well-worn brick wedged into a wall that was growing more impressive with each painful memory, threatening to entomb him within his desolation. Sometimes he felt like he wanted it. He knew with certainty it was what he deserved; and when his thoughts turned down that darkest path, he even wondered if it would be easier to just get it over with, yield to the unrelenting pressure and give in… _give up._

When his thoughts turned down that road, the fighter in him would balk at the thought of letting them win, or relinquishing the fight no matter how hard it had become. Regardless of what he'd done before, down in the pit… this was a new battle, a constant struggle, and everything he'd ever believed in told him to fight.

He cleared his throat and fixed his eyes on the empty bed before him, his gaze widening to take in the rest of the room. He had someone else to fight for, someone who _mattered_, and he'd never shirk that duty.

"He's not here."

His voice still felt hoarse from his screams, ravaged by the heat and the flames, the whiskey doing nothing to dull the constant ache. "Where is he?" he casually asked, not wanting to appear desperate or worried, loathe to seeming needy. It was simply his protective instincts, nothing more. His _job. _The one thing he had to focus on now besides his pain.

"Out."

His left brow arched as he looked over his shoulder and locked his gaze upon the angel, attempting to read him, determine if this was like the other time, if Sam was treading that dangerous path again. "Out where?"

"You needn't worry about Sam. He's safe, Dean."

Not believing in God's mercy offered distinct drawbacks, namely he didn't trust his servants, especially since he and his brother had already been threatened multiple times by the two angels who seemed to appear at the most inopportune times. "Yeah? For now or for always?"

"There are no guarantees."

Dean released an irritated huff, his ire rising. He stood up, nervous energy making him move, pace… do _something._ He turned towards the angel still seated on his bed, his anger toward the observer simmering, barely contained. Every conversation with Castiel was layered with intrigue and mystery or buried in threats. Whenever they faced off he felt threatened by the angel and quite often ended up threatening him back, or at the very least demanding answers… answers that rarely came.

He was getting increasingly furious with the whole 'God has a plan, but you can go screw yourself 'cause he's not talking' crap. He didn't care about himself, whatever they ultimately dished out he figured he deserved… even if he wasn't exactly looking for it, but _Sam_. He'd be damned to Hell all over again before he'd _ever_ let them hurt his brother. "That doesn't cut it. How about you tell me your dick pal ain't gonna smite Sam? How about we start there?" he prodded, his lips firmly pressed into a determined grimace. "And how about you, Cas? What would _you_ do to my brother?"

"This isn't about Sam." The angel showed no emotion in his words, a dry monotone ever present, only his eyes showing some concern, flickering with subtle emotions behind his frozen face.

Dean startled, not wanting to know it was about the other. He wasn't going to discuss _that_… he couldn't. The pit in his stomach felt like a lead brick, heated and ready to burn through him, but he plastered on his most confident smirk, his eyes bold and brave and hidden behind his cold mask of denial. He didn't want to ask, but he had no other option, the words escaping even as he considered holding them back. "Yeah? So what's this about?"

"You know."

The echo of Lilith's words assaulted him, her image flashing through his mind, all the pain rising up to the surface as he struggled to push it back down. His smile contorted, ending up slightly askew, eyes wide under arched brows, his head cocked to the side daring anyone to read his terror. "I do? How's about you enlighten me? I seem to have lost the memo," he snarked back, a small piece of him still hoping it was about a job or that mission from God, _anything_ but what he'd done.

"Your dream, Dean." Castiel hesitated briefly, just long enough to draw out the pain. "Did you learn anything?"

Dean's eyes glimmered as his emotions seeped out, the only part of him to react as his thoughts scattered before narrowing to consider what Cas meant, what it was exactly that he _knew_. "What? How do you?" Panic hit like a brick wall tumbling over him in an earthquake, the ground beneath him rumbling and threatening to open up and swallow him whole as the foundation surrounding his own wall faltered. His eyes trembled, blinking rapidly as his mind tried to process what the angel was searching for.

Castiel's voice was still so soft and kind, his eyes tender as he watched the hunter, intent on opening him up and crawling inside; exploring his emotions since Anna said angels didn't feel on their own. It felt like he was cannibalizing Dean's feelings, his eyes probing and invasive, cracking open the shell of the hunter and laying out all his guilt and shame just as Alastair had previously done in his bloody pursuits.

Dean gasped as more memories rippled through his mind.

"Dean.., tell me about your dream."

Dean looked at the angel, mistrust cast deep within hesitant eyes, something was off this time… _different_. He'd gotten used to Castiel's vague comments, the knowing looks and the inquisitive questions. But Anna had told him… Cas knew.

Dammit, _he knew_.

"How long?" was all he managed to squeeze out.

"How long what, Dean?"

He cleared his throat, reaching for the whiskey bottle for another swig before he could force the words out and face the truth. He took a long pull on the bottle, letting the fire caress his mouth before swallowing it down. "How long have you known… what I did?" His voice broke, mumbling out the rest in a rush, "Down in the pit?" The hurt played out across his face, pained and devastated, on the verge of losing the meager control he'd managed up until this point. His eyes sinking within his shame, filling with tears poised to fall, waiting for that final push to send him reeling into the darkness. "How long have you been crawling around in my head? In my _dreams?"_

Castiel softly sighed, his voice and concerned eyes so damn apologetic, like he was comforting a child, not a man who'd fallen as low as a man could go, who'd taken that final leap into the darkest, most foul hole a man could descend to. "Dean… you did the best you could."

"DON'T! Just don't," Dean shouted, disgust bathed in fury rising as his tears threatened to choke him, his anger allowing him to barely hold it together, hunkering down behind his wall to stave off a total collapse. "_You…_ you don't know… I don't want…" His lips trembled as the tears continued to build, the emotions hammering him, forcing him to face up to what he'd done. "I can't… don't ask me to…"

"Dean, you need to forgive yourself. It wasn't your fault."

He glared at the angel, unsure if his anger was for him or himself, just feeling it, strong and fierce, attempting to burn through him. It had been building for so long, _so very long_. He'd tried to tamp it down, bury it in a sea of whiskey and denial, but the truth never lies dormant for long. It has a way of finding its way to daylight. He knew that, knew this was inevitable.., was predestined since the moment he was pulled from the pit and the memories started filtering through, growing more vivid as each day passed until he caught that ghost fever and they assaulted him full force, every moment in the pit crystal clear in his head, battering him unmercifully night and day.

Pain and guilt that intense is patient, stealthy as it awaits its time to roar into glorious fruition. It's a long way from the depths of the pit, but when the time is rife it emerges like a volcano erupting, the nasty truths spewing forth, ugly and vile.

What was done _to_ him… and what he'd _done._

He had tried to control the memories when he confessed to Sam, but this… _this_ was raging out of any control he'd thought he'd managed. He raised up his hands and stared at them, so average, so clean… _now_. But no amount of scrubbing could ever remove the blood staining them.

How could he ever forgive himself? How could he possibly forget? How could he live with the knowledge of what he'd done?

How do you find forgiveness when there is no one left to forgive you? When the ones you harmed are forever entombed in Hell? How could he even _ask _for forgiveness after that?

There was no forgiveness, no redemption and no forgetting…

He'd made his bed, now he just needed to lie down in it.

If only this angel would go away, leave him to wallow in his anguish, to drown in his bottle.

"Dean, was this dream better?"

Dean's eyes flashed yet again, the gears grinding as he considered what the angel could possibly know… and what Cas had _done_. Only one possibility existed, and it tore through his guts and made the ache even more unbearable. This time his memories were different, the ending somehow changed so he didn't have to live with what he'd _done,_ all he had left _this time_ was what was done _to _him, the never-ending torture… his blood alone.

His eyes narrowed as he half-accused and half-questioned the angel, "You… it was _you_ who changed what happened?"

"No." The angels eyes softened ever more, his voice slow and sure, "I merely gave you back the choice, the chance to do it all again."

Confusion was muddling up Dean's head, what he'd just remembered seemed so real, so true… Even though it veered off from all his other memories, he so _wanted_ it to be true… to somehow have held on longer than he had thought… to somehow have stayed the course. The tears continued to build; hope fading as the truth again exerted its will. "So none of it was real?"

"No."

"Why?" His voice guttural, worn rough and raspy, whiskey and hell damaged. "Why'd you do it?" Pleading eyes latched onto the angel, shattered by this reality, the bitter truth of what he'd done still there to haunt him… _forever there_.

Castiel still showed no emotion, his face solemn and fixed, aside from those expressive eyes still seeking out whatever emotions he could steal from the hunter. "It was a test."

"A TEST?" Dean exploded.

Castiel offered a slight nod. "To see if you'd learned anything… if _you'd _changed."

Dean released an incredulous laugh, his hands forming into fists at his sides, squeezing tight until the blood was cut off and his knuckles appeared white, looking away momentarily to compose himself before he turned back, anger still building in those intense eyes to cover the pain of the truth crushing his very soul. "What? To see if I could go thirty-_one_ years? _Thirty-two?" _He paused, taking a deep breath before his mouth twisted into a shaky grimace, his lips trembling for a second before he steadied them beneath eyes fixed and deadly. "You know what? Screw you. You don't _know…"_

"Dean…"

"Leave me alone… just LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE!"

Castiel shifted in his seat, still so calm and reserved… so very infuriating. His voice maintaining that even keel, that unflappable tone. "Dean…"

Dean collapsed onto his brother's bed, his back and shoulders trembling from the burdens pressing down on him, his head hung dejectedly. He looked up, tears filling the whites of his shattered eyes, his lips quivering as he forced out the words, his emotions driving his hurts and ignoring any resolve he'd had to not do this. "You're as sick as they are… You get off on the blood? The screams? You like seeing how far you can push a man before he just can't take another minute?" His voice hitched, all his agony displayed within his tormented face, every muscle trembling from the strain, "Another _second?"_

"No."

"Yeah, right… you're just following orders," he scoffed. "So why? Why'd you do it, Cas? First you pull me out and then you throw me back in… Oh, but wait… no worries… It wasn't _real_; it was just a test... another freakin' test!" Dean spat out the words with contempt, his mouth twisted as his jaw defiantly set, "So, Cas… tell me… did I pass? Did I live up to my new role here? Am I _worthy?"_

Castiel looked up, compassion filling out sincere eyes, his voice soothing and mellow, like warm cognac filling out a cup of coffee. "Yes… but you always were. We simply needed to prove that to _you."_

Dean arched his brow, his eyes delving deeper into the angel's, searching for something to believe in. "Prove it to _me?_ What the hell?" His face was lost in all his anguish and pain, all his unanswered questions and a desperate hope for release.., the silent prayer for redemption lingering off to the side, never daring to ask for help.

Castiel continued, "You need to learn to forgive yourself. God did."

Dean gazed upon the angel with a skeptic's eyes, mistrust and contempt jostling for the advantage, an edge evident in his response. "He did, huh? So why this?"

"So you could have a second chance... to turn back the clock. Another chance to do the right thing."

"Do the right thing?" he exclaimed, rocketing between laughter and tears, his contempt building beyond any previously known parameters. "You make it sound like a movie… an exercise in control, a freakin' _game." _Dean took a deep breath. Once he headed down this path there was no turning back, all his pent up anger and conflict erupting out of him in a rage, every thought and emotion pulled forth and thrown down at the angel. "Down there… it was _real, _Cas, and… it was happening and I had no control, no power, no way out except…" His voice hitched, his emotions threatening to bury him. He gulped down his terrors and continued, "You have _no idea_ how I tried… No clue how hard it was to last ten years… and then twenty and then every _single_ day I wanted to say yes. Every.. damn.. day.., but I didn't… I _couldn't_… until the day came when I just couldn't do it one more second. Not.. one.. second.. more… and god help me I didn't care anymore… I just didn't care."

Tears were streaming down his face. He'd thought he'd released all his tears with Sam, he didn't think there could possibly be any left, but they came regardless, angry and hurt and scared and so very ashamed. Tears covering every emotion that had been lying dormant inside him, building untended, buried behind his fortress and just now finding the light of day as his walls cracked wide open.

"Dean, you lasted for longer than any other."

Dean trembled as he tried to compose himself, unable to wall up the pain but finding a way to fight through it. He was so angry… at Cas, at himself… at _God…_ He'd been left in the pit for _forty years_, forty years of pain and torture, only to find out there _was_ a God, that God would save him, pull him out… but not soon enough. Not _nearly _soon enough. He spat out the question, not caring if he was being disrespectful; at this point daring the angel to smite him if he cared to, "So how long was God there?"

In a standard reply that always seemed to calm the masses, Castiel offered up the rote answer, "God was with you the entire time."

Dean wasn't in the mood for platitudes, for standard responses. "Figures," he snarled, "So what? He couldn't be bothered to pull me out before I started ripping them apart? It wasn't _important _enough or he just get off on watching people suffer?" He looked away; his eyes focused on the ground before they slowly rose, tears still filling them but no longer allowed to fall, his voice cracking as he posed the question, "Cas, so tell me… Why the hell didn't he pull me out sooner? _Before…" _He stopped, catching his breath as he steadied his voice. He looked up from beneath long, lush lashes, his eyes lost within the moisture of his tears, his face suddenly looking so young and broken, so totally shattered. "Why the hell did he let me tear into them?"

It was now Castiel who looked away for a moment, his eyes turning back with a true tenderness in them, moisture evident, while his voice held a twinge of emotion, regret seeping in. "It was necessary."

Dean's anger showed no signs of dissipating, still going strong and sure, the only part of him that was certain. His voice maintained all his disgust and scorn, "That's not good enough, buddy. Ten years, Cas… Why would he leave me to tear into them for ten freaking years?"

TBC

_Thanks for reading, any and all comments are appreciated. Take care, B.J._


	4. At the End Lies Redemption

_I apologize for being so late in posting this last chapter. Life has been a bit complicated of late and time is a constant issue. I think I will go back to my resolve to never again post a WIP. It is too hard when you start out strong and have every intention of barreling through a story to hit that brick wall and falter. _

_I do have several zine stories available to post soon and they are all thankfully complete. Here is the final chapter of __The Rack__, thanks for coming along on this ride. As always, thank you for choosing to read my stories and if you'd care to comment, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Take care, B.J._

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"_What lies behind us and what lies before us are small matters compared to what lies within us."_ - Oliver Wendell Holmes

Chapter Four – At the End Lies Redemption

_Dean's voice maintained all his disgust and scorn, "That's not good enough, buddy. Ten years, Cas… Why would God leave me to tear into them for ten freaking years?"_

---

The question haunted the still of the room, hanging silent and unanswered, the quiet unsettling, belying the tension coiled within the man, ready to snap forth in another rage at the slightest trigger. A gentle sigh and downcast eyes the only indication Castiel was unable to provide an answer, either not knowing or not caring to share, leaving angel and man adrift, each contemplating the impact those ten years held over Dean and those he'd tortured. Buried within an unrelenting pain and consumed by the hole eating away at his soul, Dean's contempt and hatred were equally shared by God and himself. His own failings the foundation he set his self-loathing upon.

Castiel sat quietly observing the hunter, his eyes forever curious and probing; his low, sensuous voice finally breaking through the silence, his tone attempting to offer a measure of comfort from his insight. "Dean, do you realize you haven't asked why God didn't save _you_ from _your_ torture?"

"What?" He looked up, confusion filling out his face, tired eyes lost and unfocused staring blankly at the angel, his mouth twisting as he tried to come up with a response, starting to form an answer before stopping and sucking the silent words back. His eyes flickered through a half-dozen changes, the question catching him off balance, truly a foreign concept never before considered. He was hesitant, unclear where to begin to seek out an answer.

Castiel continued in a whisper, a sense of awe wrapping his words in a cushion of tenderness. "Your concern is always for others." Soft eyes gazed gentle upon the hunter, squinting to see him better, longing to better comprehend. "_Why is that?_ Why aren't you concerned with your own pain?"

Dean grew taller; inching upwards, his back straightening while his broad shoulders pulled back, his face determined when he finally answered, his reply found in the manual of his life, in his duty, through his job. "I made a choice, _I…_" his voice stuttered and silenced as uncertainty swallowed him. His face strained, struggling to come up with a better reply as he sank down onto the bed in frustration, flickering eyes displaying all the anguish bottled within.

Before he could sort out his thoughts Castiel interrupted, "Dean, your empathy for their pain far surpasses your concern for your own."

The hunter's defiance was strong and immediate, quickly reasserting itself. His voice was raw and low, the timbre of it accepting of all guilt, leaning heavily upon his shame and how his actions made him _feel_. "You _know_ what I did… You _know_ how I made them suffer…" His wide eyes glimmered behind his tears and his voice trembled as he continued in a whisper, "How can you ask me that?" An audible gasp escaped as he choked on the words, the memories, and the pain; his response slow and deliberate… firm, yet utterly _defeated_. "What I _did_ to them…" His voice trailed off as the memories entombed him.

Castiel sighed, his task becoming ever more difficult as the weight pressing on the man continued to shape his reactions. Dean's refusal to allow any leeway for the man who took knife in hand and betrayed his own beliefs wasn't unexpected, not after what he'd already witnessed from the hunter. Dean remained steadfast in his abhorrence of his actions, unwilling to compromise his high standards, refusing to accept absolution... _accept that he was only human_. Undaunted, Castiel pressed on, logic his weapon of choice, "Dean, it is… _unfortunate_ you were the hand that tortured them."

"Unfortunate?" he spat back, nervously laughing, his mouth twisting as he struggled with the word, repeating it incredulously, "_Unfortunate_… Yeah, Cas…" He dejectedly shook his head, turning away for a moment before firmly stating the harsh reality constantly pressing on his soul, "I tortured them." His eyes rose and locked with the angel, all his pain written across his face, shattered eyes and quivering lips, the tense clench of his jaw betrayed by a persistent twitch. With more force and conviction he emphasized the only truth he could see, "I _tortured_ them."

In spite of all he'd witnessed through the centuries, the vast devastation inflicted on mankind from war and mass genocide and every injustice unimaginable, Castiel had never before been so intimately aware of the damage a man could suffer. He struggled to maintain a safe distance, that detachment which had allowed him to walk the earth simply observing for two thousand years, never before feeling this pressing need to interfere. His resolve now fully tested by the man who sat before him, his pain immediate and real, so raw and brittle; the angel's own emotions churned up by the close proximity and intensity of the hurt embedded within the hunter's very being. Calmly, but with a voice steeped in regret, Castiel offered a logical reply, "They would have suffered just the same by someone else's hand. Dean… it's to be _expected_ in Hell." He attempted to put the human's crimes in perspective, still trying to penetrate his defenses, "It doesn't matter that it was your hand."

Dean looked up, dark eyes brimming with more emotion; pain and guilt heavy in the tears gathering there. "You're _wrong_. It matters…" He choked back his tears, his jaw set firm even as his muscles throbbed from the building pressure, his lips trembling unsteady before stilling, his resolve demanding he regain some measure of control. His voice was low and rough, enunciating each word, punctuating his intent. "It _matters_ that I let myself do it. It _matters_ that it was _my hand _that cut them…" He stared at his outstretched hand, rolling his wrist in the air to observe it from all angles, his eyes focusing on the trail of blood, long ago wiped clean but forever staining them. Releasing his arm to lay back across his thighs, he closed his eyes and wallowed in the memories, a horror movie played out against the blackness of his lids, his body flinching from the terror of every slice that had laid them open. His voice was whiskey raw, aching and drained, "Oh, it matters… _it matters_."

Castiel breathed in the pain surrounding him; the hurt defined by the image of this broken man before him, Dean shuddering as strong shoulders bowed from the pressure. Steadying his own heart, he pressed onward, "Dean.., not everyone is given the offer to climb off the rack." Those words succeeded in capturing the hunter's eyes, curious… _desperate_, waiting expectantly for the angel to elaborate. "Why do you think Alastair gave _you_ that option?"

Releasing a slight gasp, Dean's mouth contorted; a grimace forming as the words came, difficult words for him to voice, Alastair's image crowding his vision as he acknowledged the crushing truth. "He said I showed _promise_…"

Calm and controlled, Castiel responded in a soft voice, "And what do you think he meant?"

Dean swallowed, his eyes fixed on the worn carpet before they slowly rose, determined to face the darkness waiting to take him, his gaze connecting with the angel. "That I could be like him… like _them_. I was…" He paused, his shame spreading out to claim the last of his features, his tender eyes sinking back in despair, the waves of his tears filling to the brim and threatening to spill forth. He locked his jaw and his full lips held firm as he forced the words out in a harsh, scathing attack, "I was _good_ at the torture… I was capable… I was… like _him_."

"No." Castiel let that one work sink in before he continued, "Dean… that's not the reason." The angel spoke slowly but deliberately; his tone commanding, _demanding _that Dean listen, really listen. "You showed promise because of your strength… because of how long you withstood their torture."

"What?" The voice was small, stunned and temporarily baffled, shattered eyes slowly rising to meet the angel's, the slightest glimmer of hope flickering for an instant before being cast back into the depths.

"Alastair knew you,Dean_. _Knew what could destroy you. All men have a breaking point… a point where they lose themselves. The right pressure… over time… insures it. Turning you into a torturer was their way of breaking you, their means of claiming victory. No one, Dean…" Castiel captured his eyes, his voice firm and sure as he put additional emphasis on the words hoping his message would sink in, "_No one_ could have withstood more than you did. It was inevitable that you would accept the offer…" Castiel paused, resigning himself to the unshakable truth, the image of this damaged man before him squeezing at his own heart, bringing with it that foreign feeling deep within his chest that he had yet to fully understand. "They were counting on it."

Dean seemed to be considering the angel's words, rolling the thoughts around in his head before offering his next rebuttal. His eyes sank back within his agony, sensitive eyes overcome with emotion as he cut to the core of the matter, "But they _did_ break me…" Defeat saturated the room, seeping from every pore and consuming the man, leaving only the torn husk of who he'd once been. "They won."

Despite all his training and directives and how he was supposed to handle himself, Castiel liked Dean and it hurt to see him in this much pain, pain that shouldn't be intensified by misplaced blame and guilt, by failing to acknowledge the inevitability of his descent. Determination grabbed hold of him, the chance to fight making him bolder and more aggressive. "No, Dean… not unless you let them." He waited for some sign, an indication he was getting through, when none came he continued on, battering against firm defenses, "Dean, when given another chance you _changed_ the outcome. You refused Alastair's orders. You didn't raise the knife to the man."

"This time." The words were harsh and firm… bordering on broken. Refusing to accept the compassion and understanding offered Dean fought back with what he knew, all he felt. "_Before…_ I…"

"That was _before_. Dean, you're human. Self-preservation is a natural response. They _know _that… they've been torturing souls for centuries." With great deliberation he offered up another truth, "You're not the first to break… and Dean, you won't be the last. They _all _do. You held on longer than any other." Castiel sighed, the struggle to get through wearing at him, unused to how hard the hunter fought against reason, refusing to accept his basic human reaction was understandable… _forgivable._ He knew if he only felt a fraction of the hunter's pain how debilitating it must be, so he found it hard to comprehend why he wouldn't release it, accept the gift of forgiveness an Angel of the Lord was so willing to offer. It was another example of how special this man was, why he was so integral to their plans. "You had no other option, Dean. Just as you don't feel you have any option in how you feel about it now. Dean, it was _why_ the offer was made."

Still stubbornly resisting, Dean reacted with anger, at himself, at the hopelessness, at the cruel injustice that ripped apart everything he ever believed in. His tone was sure and strong, with the underpinnings of hurt weaved throughout showing how damaged he truly was. "That's not how I'm _supposed_ to react… It's not what I do... It was weak." He slumped further down on the bed, head bowed and hands clasped over his knees, silently staring at the indelible stains on them. After an interminable wait, he slowly raised his head and looked up at the angel. "It was… _wrong."_

"It's past."

The words exploded out of him, fierce and ugly, "Don't you get it?" His entire body shook, his eyes on the brittle edge of defeat, ready to release another torrent of tears as his anger spewed forth. "It will _never_ be past… it's right here…" He tapped his temple, his fingers brutal as they pounded against his skull. "It's in my head… _all the time_. Hammering away at my brain, never letting me forget."

Calmly and with a steady voice, Castiel responded, "So now you have a new memory. Now you have back your control."

Fractured eyes gazed upon the angel, the voice small and broken, dejectedly repeating his objection, "It wasn't real."

"Dean, you _thought _it was. It was as real as before… and you changed the outcome."

Stuck on one simple truth, Dean continued to fight. "But I still tortured them… You didn't change that. I have to pay for what I did." Determination was strong in his voice, the polar opposite to his hopelessness. "I _know_ that."

"Dean, you've already paid." Castiel hesitated, the pain and shame somehow filling the distance between them, drawing him further into Dean's agony, making his own gut shift uncomfortably from the tension. "You've already suffered more than enough. You need to forgive yourself."

"How?" he softly asked. He sat silent, tormented and still, struggling for guidance. "Just _how _do I do that?" He hesitated, reflecting again on his ever present concern for others. "What about the ones I tortured?" He grimaced, nervous and desperate, shame and regret still raging, and then something changed in his eyes, a new spark lighting another avenue of thought, glimmering with uncertainty. "And what about _God?_" he bitterly questioned. For the first time acknowledging that perhaps he'd failed to live up to some new holy standard, still convinced he was unworthy of being saved and forever questioning _why_. "Is that what he expects from me? To be a torturer? Is that why he pulled me from the pit?"

"Dean, God doesn't blame you for what happened." Castiel paused, his words coming slow and deliberate, "He is not _unaware_ of the extenuating circumstances."

"Oh, really? That's a nice way of putting it." Dean offered one of his standard smirks. "So everything's just hunky dory?" he scoffed.

"Dean, it's in the past. God forgives you."

Dean's smirk trembled as he forced out a laugh. "He does, huh? So, what? Now I'm just supposed to accept that God forgives me and move on? Just forget the whole ugly mess?"

"Yes, Dean… as best you can." Castiel offered a half smile, kind eyes trying to relay his concern. "God forgave you before I pulled you from the pit. God forgave you without you even asking. God saw into your heart."

"Into my heart?" he questioned, his eyes glimmering with a distant memory. "What, like Roy said?"

"Yes. Dean, God isn't unjust, he isn't unaware of the suffering you've endured. He knows the pain and he is here to help you."

"Help me?" Dean trembled, his eyes lost in his tears, his mouth twisting around the words as he struggled to come to terms. "How? Just how is he gonna make this all right?"

"He can heal you, if you'll only allow him in. If you'll only accept that you did the best that you could… and Dean… it's enough."

"No… it's _not_… it can never be." The anger again rose as the man faltered under the weight of his sins. "I… the _things_ _I did_…" he firmly spat out, all his anguish laced within his words.

"Humans are imperfect, they fail miserably at times, but as long as you keep trying, keep fighting… there is always another chance to do good." Castiel gazed upon the broken man before him, his tone soft and tender. "And Dean, isn't that what you want, a chance to do good again?"

Dean fell silent. Helping people, defeating evil, it was all he had; the _only_ thing he'd found that allowed him a moment's peace. But he couldn't hunt 24/7 and he had to sleep… and with sleep came nightmares, the memories constant, pushing and prodding and demanding he never forget. Insuring he'd never be free of the pit.

He hated being weak, _needing it_, but the truth was he drank to dull the pain, to take the edge off by blurring the visions and stifling their screams. It never worked. They were always there, hazy and muffled, but _there_…waiting… plotting to take him down. His emotions churned up from deep within, torturing him incessantly and no amount of liquor could drown them and he _knew_ that, but his options were scant… so he did the best he could. It was all he'd ever done… the best he could and tried to live with the results. _This _he couldn't find a way to live with. He felt like he'd never fill the emptiness within. It was a black hole consuming everything except his pain, keeping that strong and real, rattling around in the dark caverns echoing his weakness. He was so tired of living with that pain.

Castiel had been waiting, _watching_. He observed the silent man, the pain etched upon Dean's face telling more than words ever could, those expressive eyes unable to hide the harsh truth. He took in a deep breath and ventured forward, knowing this next step was crucial. "Dean, I know this is hard, but I envy you."

The comment drew the expected reaction, incredulous shock. "What the hell?"

"Dean, hear me out. How you empathize with others, how you feel such deep emotion. It's a gift, Dean."

Dean stared at the angel, his brows furrowed as he examined the sight before him, finally speaking when his contempt grew too large to hold inside. "A gift? Are you insane? If it's a _gift_ then I'm returning it," he spat out, a feeble attempt to diffuse a tense situation.

"Dean, it's a part of you… I know the hurts can be… _overwhelming_, but there is also joy… love… The bond you share with Sam, your deep love and loyalty. It's something to hold on to. Dean… you have to accept the bad with the good."

"The bad? How about the horrific? The _unbearable?_ Don't you get it? I don't _want_ to feel. I don't want to feel anything!" His tears again forced their way into the open, trickling down his face, steady and unrelenting.

"Dean, feeling is what makes you human. It gives you the compassion to understand what others are going through. It offers you insight and wisdom. Dean, it makes you _who you are_."

He closed his eyes, sucking in a deep breath before opening them and speaking with disdain, "Yeah? Well, I don't _like_ who I am."

"God does."

Dean laughed, a tremulous smile flickering across his lips but failing to reach his eyes, still dark and brooding. "Then obviously God doesn't see all he claims to see. The things I've done.., and not just in Hell…" He lifted his arms up in a bold gesture, opening himself up for scrutiny. "Not exactly a poster boy for good behavior."

"Dean, God accepts the complete package, the bad with the good."

Dean shook from the thoughts jamming his head. He tried to retreat, find solace again somewhere far away from this angel who wouldn't let him be, depressed and miserable. "Stop it… just _stop it_. Whatever you're trying to do here… it ain't working."

"Dean, what do you want me to do?" Castiel sincerely asked, patiently awaiting a response.

"What?"

"How can I help you?" he elaborated.

"Are you serious?"

"Dean, I made the offer."

Dean sat silently observing the angel, his mind working on the courage to ask. Dean Winchester wasn't used to asking for favors or help, wasn't comfortable being indebted. He hesitated only briefly. This he needed, more than anything he'd ever before desired. "I can't forget… can you..?"

Slipping in and filling the space the hunter left, Castiel filled in the missing words, "Take away your memories?"

Dean swallowed, his eyes deep in moisture, his lips trembling as he clenched his jaw, short tremors rippling across his face. He looked up and sad eyes answered long before he found his voice, "Yes."

Another sigh released as Castiel offered his apology, "I'm sorry, Dean. I can't. It's a part of you now, but it doesn't have to be the main part."

Hurt eyes responded, his resigned smirk trying to regain some composure. "No? Tell it to up here…" He again pounded at his temple, his anger rising. "It's all I can think about, it's always right there."

"It was…, but you have another memory now," Castiel offered, still trying to guide the hunter toward forgiveness. "Dean, you changed the past. When you knew what the future held, how you'd feel after stepping off the rack you didn't do it. You couldn't… you need to hold on to that."

"It wasn't real." The words came soft, his manner softer.

"You didn't know that… it was as real to you as the first time." The awe in Castiel's voice swelled; his admiration ever present. "Dean, you chose to put yourself back on the rack rather than feel the pain of torturing the others. You _did_ that. It was your choice. It truly was the move of a noble man… a _good man_."

"It doesn't change what really happened… it doesn't take their blood from my hands," he fought back.

"No… but it's a start. Dean, you have to take the blessings you're offered. This is a chance to make a new ending."

He withdrew back into himself. It was a long time before he again spoke, confident and sure, his simmering anger surging as he went on the attack. "You could take away the memories… You just won't." He offered a mix between a grimace and a smirk, his eyes focused and probing as he tried to reach the truth. "Hell, you can bend time, hurl me back forty years… and you can't wipe clean my thoughts?" Dean questioned with contempt. He looked up, forlorn eyes searching, dark thoughts creeping in. "And that's not all.., is it?"

"No."

Cold and deadly the hunter spoke, the truth finally revealing itself through his sensitive eyes, "You _want_ me to remember the pit."

Shifting uncomfortably, Castiel answered, "It is necessary."

"Why?" he barked out.

Castiel sat silently observing him, his eyes maintaining the connection as the hunter's eyes bore into him, but he didn't speak, instead waiting for the man to continue.

Nervously his tongue swiped across full lips as a forced smirk emerged, the fine lines around his eyes pronounced and framing the hurt. "You won't take away the memories because you need to control me," he stated slowly. "What, the threat doesn't hold as much juice if I don't remember how bad it was? If you threatening to toss me back into the pit doesn't have that up-close-and-personal feel to it?" The venom in his voice rose. "God… you are a bastard."

"We've already established that."

"So what does God want from me? Why does he need the leverage?"

"You're not going to like it."

He chuckled, forced and full of further disgust. "Yeah, I gathered… so, let it drop. Just tell me and get it the hell over with. I'm sick of waiting for you to grow a pair," he spat back, finding strength through his anger. Dean Winchester had always found control in the fight. He _knew_ how to fight. His training and determination serving him well as he stepped into another arena.

Softly Castiel replied, "Not yet."

"And why the hell not?" he snarled.

"The time's not right."

"And when exactly will the time be right?" he pressed, a fire growing in his belly, the hole pushed down deep and ignored, more pressing concerns demanding his focus.

"Soon, Dean… _soon. _If I were you I wouldn't be looking for trouble. You already have enough to keep you occupied," he solemnly replied, his manner and short glance to the motel door clueing in the hunter.

"Sam?"

"Sam."

Dean cleared his throat, all concern for his own pain swept aside as he focused on his job, on protecting his brother. "What's this got to do with Sam?"

"First, Dean, tell me how you felt when you were torturing them."

"Why? What the hell difference does that make?"

"Dean, you want answers… you need to tell me."

Dean sucked in a deep breath, determined to do whatever was necessary to protect Sam, to play any game the angel and God demanded… anything to find out their plans. "It felt _good_… to be off the rack, to not have them carving into me. At first I just wanted to feel nothing, to not be screaming at the top of my lungs." His voice was small and childlike, so hurt and scared, "I just wanted the pain to end."

"And then?"

Dean glanced up, more anguish filling his eyes, his tears again building. He took another breath and blurted out the truth. "I liked it." He licked his lips, a tremulous grimace struggling to control the shaking as he tried to find the words. "And I was good at it… The _power_ I had over them… to be able to do whatever I wanted and they just had to take it." He struggled against himself, how much he'd reveal, how far he'd admit to going. "I made them scream and the louder they screamed the more I felt in control… the more I got off on it." He stopped, shame mixing with a certain relief from revealing his darkest truths.

"Dean, it was a natural response."

"No… it was sick… twisted."

"No, Dean. You'd been taken to the very edge and beyond… made to endure suffering unimaginable and when given the option, it was only natural for you to take back whatever control you could. To place yourself on the side that held all the power. It's been studied and documented, how a man will align himself with those who'd tortured him, just to do precisely that… regain some semblance of control."

Dean shook from the intent gaze upon him, all his inner demons on full display and he felt so open and vulnerable, so totally shamed by his actions and how they made him feel, both then and now.

Castiel continued, his voice low, sensitive to the pain before him. "Dean… think back… when it first started, when you first raised up the knife… what were your very first thoughts?"

Dean pulled his bottom lip into his mouth, worrying it before gasping for breath, the memories so sharp and fresh, so real. His voice remained soft and broken, letting the memories slip free. "I couldn't feel… I couldn't feel _anything_… The pain was gone and that was all I cared about. I remember thinking I couldn't feel my blood running down my sides, I couldn't hear it dripping to the floor and I was so relieved… _so relieved_." He took in another deep breath, his strength returning as he faced up to his actions. "I couldn't _believe _what I was doing… I had to shut it down, just go through the motions… blood was covering my hands and arms, splashed on my face… across my chest, but it wasn't my blood and that's all I cared about… it wasn't _me_ being ripped to shreds, it wasn't me… _it wasn't me_… it wasn't…" He gasped, heavy and broken, his chest heaving from the weight pressing down.

"And it was later that you felt the power in your actions?"

"Yeah…" he softly replied. A small tremor rolled down his spine as he offered a quick glance to the angel staring at him with such concern. Rubbing his hands down the front of his jeans, gripping his knees as he spoke, he lowered his eyes and focused on his clenched hands. "The more I tortured them, the more I liked it until I wanted them to scream… I _wanted _to hurt them..." He nervously licked his lips, biting down on the bottom lip as he pulled it back into his mouth.

Gently Castiel pushed him to reveal more. "_Why,_ Dean? Why did you want to hurt them?"

His voice cracked as he choked out his response, "It _helped_."

"Helped how?"

"It helped me forget _before…_ How _I screamed_… how scared I was… all those terrors I'd felt for thirty years."

"Dean, you had a lot of pain to erase."

He nodded, slowly raising his head to tentatively make eye contact. "The more I hurt them the less I felt."

"And now you remember, don't you? All the pain from before on top of the pain of making them suffer."

"Yes."

"But the worst is how you feel now, isn't it? The pain of knowing what you did… what you were driven to do."

Another soft sigh released as he answered, "Yeah."

"It must be terrible, I realize that… but how you _feel_ will help you stay the course. You now know how it feels to fall short. God chose you, with all your faults and missteps. Everything happens for a reason, Dean."

"So, why did _this _happen? What's this got to do with Sam? With what God wants from me?"

"Sam is facing a test. He has to decide which road he'll take. It is a very dangerous time for him, Dean. These powers of his… they are very _intoxicating_." Castiel waited for the rise of the head, the look of realization in the eyes. "You know how exhilarating power like that can be… how true evil can make you do things you'd never before considered… what the ramifications can be." Castiel capture the hunter's eyes, his words carving out the truth. "How devastating it can be to make the wrong choice… to align yourself on the wrong side."

"You want me to pull Sam back… like you did for me?"

"Yes… if he goes over the line."

"Will he?"

"The future isn't set, Dean. We don't _know _what lies ahead for your brother. We only know the dangers. You need to be there in case he loses his way."

"So why the dream? Why not just tell me? Tell me what you wanted. Why mess with my head?"

"To remind you of the danger… how easily evil can use your humanity to break you, but you _can_ fight back. You changed the outcome… you now know you always have a choice. You can't alter the past, what happened to you, but you _can_ change the future, Dean."

"You make it sound so easy…" Dean stopped, his voice ground down from the pain, his eyes again filling with tears.

"What is it, Dean?"

"I don't _know_ that I could hold out again… that I would make the right choice. This… _this _was a dream… I might end up doing the same thing… until you've been there, you don't know…"

"I understand, Dean. We all do. You did the best you could at the time."

"What if I choose wrong again? What if Sam does?"

"You won't Dean… you remember what that feels like. I have faith in you. Dean… God has faith in you."

The man silently stared at his hands, clenching them tight before releasing the pressure and laying them at his knees. He looked up with those same hesitant eyes, somehow asking for forgiveness, shattered eyes begging for absolution, knowing he needed it even if he felt he was undeserving. Unable to voice his need, his eyes did all the talking he wouldn't allow.

Castiel offered a knowing smile, a gentle nod acknowledging the terrors still lingering within the hunter. He didn't wait for the hunter to speak, instinctively knowing what he needed to hear. "Now, after knowing how you'd feel, how it would all turn out… it simply gives you more insight, more compassion for others too. It was a learning experience. It was necessary to help you see the true course… to give you further insight."

"I hope to god I never have to use it."

"But you will… not in Hell, but in life, in the choices you'll make as your journey continues. All of life's lessons are not pleasant; in fact, some of the most enlightening are painful. But that's how you grow… It's how you learn. That's all you can do, Dean, learn and make better choices the next time."

"And Sam… how do I help him make the right choice?"

"Watch him, Dean… He's walking a very dangerous path." Castiel solemnly paused, his eyes tender and subdued. "Dean, it's what you've always done… be the big brother… guide him to the right side."

"Sam's not a kid anymore… He's not going to do what I tell him just 'cause I tell him. So… how am I supposed to control him?"

"Dean, I don't have all the answers. And more questions will arise. I only know that I am here to serve you, to guide you and help _you_ make the right decisions."

"_How?_ How will I _know _what's right?"

"Listen to your heart."

"_What? _Lilith…" Dean trembled from deep in his gut, the air sucked from his lungs as he panicked at the thought of that child, her sweet face holding so many lies, hiding so much evil. "Lilith told me to listen to my heart… It was pounding, bursting… Why would you say that?" He stuttered slightly, his voice again hesitant. "Why did she?"

"Lilith knows your true purpose. Why do you think they wanted you in Hell? Why do you think it was so crucial that they break you?"

"Because I'm a hunter… because I sent so many of them back to Hell…" Dean suddenly stopped, his eyes connecting with Castiel's as his realization grew. "Why? _Why me?"_

"It is your destiny."

"To save Sam?"

"Dean, that's only a small part of it. You have your own path to follow."

"Just tell me… How can I know what you expect if you don't tell me?" he demanded, his frustration growing, wrapping tightly around him and only bringing more questions.

"You'll know… Dean, somehow you've always known what the right course was. It's why God chose you. When the time comes… trust your heart."

And then the angel was gone.

Somehow Castiel was always the one to end their conversations, offering up his latest threat or final words of wisdom and fluttering away on angel's wings. It was one of the most annoying things about him.

Dean was left to ponder what he'd learned, what little that was… _Still,_ he found himself revisiting the words, testing how far he could venture into the forgiveness Cas offered. He could be stubborn and headstrong, but he also realized what he needed… _and _what was offered. He wanted to believe he was worthy of being saved, that one day he would do something that could offset the horrors he'd imposed on the others, enabling him to finally release his guilt. He wanted to trust that somehow the constant pain would eventually diminish. He hoped to god Castiel was right about that… that he would one day find the absolution he so desperately needed. Even if his mind was never totally free of his time in Hell, he hoped at least the painful memories would start to lose their hold over him and he would at long last be released from this purgatory.

Time, he just needed to hang on until the time was right, until God's plans became clear, as frustrating to hell as that was. In the meantime he had his brother to protect and evil to slay. He supposed that had to be enough. Always before it _had_ been… the only things that kept him moving forward.

He was still sitting on the bed contemplating what the angel had revealed when he heard the key in the motel door. Slowly it opened and Sam stepped into the room, quiet and stealthy as if to not disturb. Sam looked surprised to find him awake, calmly sitting on his bed.

Their eyes connected and Sam shuffled in, depositing a small bag and two covered cups of coffee on the small table by the door. "Hey, you're up," he stated with too much enthusiasm.

"Where were you?"

"I, ah… just went out, was checking on those records over at the courthouse."

Dean studied him, his eyes just short of accusing, not liking how he questioned everything his kid brother told him these days. "You should have woke me."

"You were exhausted… looked like you could use the rest…" Sam hesitated, worry and concern evident in his tone. "Dean? You all right?"

Dean paused before answering, his eyes conveying an overwhelming sadness, moisture filling them until the light reflecting off of them made them sparkle. He looked deep into his brother's eyes, forging a bond with him as he released a tense sigh. "No… but I will be."

The End

bjxmas

February 2009

All standard disclaimers apply.

_Thanks for reading, any and all comments are appreciated. Until next time, take care, B.J. _


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